“Are you hungry?”
Maria greeted her mom, then her dad, then her mom again, then her dad a second time. In her parents’ minds, Maria would always be their little girl. And though there’d been a period for a few teenage years when the idea had mortified her – especially when apparent in public – these days she had to admit that she kind of liked it.
“I’m okay. I can grab something later.”
“I’ll make you something,” her mom said decisively, moving toward the refrigerator. Her dad watched her go with obvious appreciation. He had always been a hopeless romantic.
In his midfifties, he was neither thin nor fat. He had little gray in his hair, but Maria noticed a lingering, almost constant weariness, the effect of too much work for too many years. Tonight he seemed even less energetic than usual.
“Making you dinner makes her feel like she’s still important to you,” he said.
“Of course she’s still important to me. Why would she think otherwise?”
“Because you don’t need her the way you once did.”
“I’m not a child.”
“But she’ll always be your mother,” he said firmly. He motioned toward the table on the porch. “Do you want to sit outside and enjoy some wine? Your mom and I were having a glass.”
“I can get it,” she said. “Let me talk to Mom for a bit and I’ll meet you out there.”
While her dad returned to the porch, she retrieved a glass from the cupboard and poured herself some wine before sidling up to her mother. By then, Carmen had loaded up a casserole dish with pot roast, mashed potatoes, green beans, and a biscuit – enough calories for a couple of days, Maria estimated – and was sliding the dish into the oven. For whatever reason – maybe because it was something they never served at the restaurant – her dad loved pot roast and mashed potatoes.
“I’m so glad you came by,” her mom said. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” Maria said. She leaned against the counter and took a sip of wine. “I just wanted to surprise you.”
“So you say. But something must have happened,” she said. “You never visit us during the week.”
“That’s why it’s a surprise.”
Carmen evaluated her before crossing over to the counter and retrieving her own wineglass. “Is it your sister?”
“Is what my sister?”
“She didn’t get turned down for the scholarship, did she?”
“You know about that?”
Carmen motioned to a letter tacked up on the refrigerator. “It’s exciting, isn’t it? She told us about it last night. The director will be coming to dinner this Saturday.”
“Really?”
“We wanted to meet him,” she said. “The letter says that she’s one of the semifinalists. But back to your sister. What happened? If it’s not about that, then it must have something to do with a boy. She’s not in trouble, is she?”
Her mom was talking so fast that even Maria had trouble keeping up. “Serena’s fine, as far as I know.”
“Ah.” Her mother nodded. “Good. It’s something at your work, then. You’re the one having problems.”
“Work is… work. Why would you think there’s a problem?”
“Because you came straight here afterwards.”
“So?”
“That’s what you’ve always done whenever something was bothering you. Don’t you remember? Even in college, if you thought you got a bad grade, or when you were having trouble with your roommate your freshman year, or whenever you fought with Luis, you always came here. Mothers remember those kinds of things.”
Huh, she thought. I never realized that. She changed the subject. “I think you worry too much.”
“And I think I know my daughter.”
Maria smiled. “How’s Dad?”
“He’s been quiet since he got home. He had to fire two people this week.”